The ceremonial drums echoed through the streets like a relentless heartbeat, their pounding rhythm surging from head to head in the tightly packed crowd. The source was lost, but the weight was inescapable, hammering against the ears of the city.
Colors—vivid and clashing—swirled through the cobblestone streets. Suits of silk, tunics of linen, and glittering jewelry mingled with weathered faces and wide, eager eyes.
Horse-drawn carriages, their metal-alloy wheels catching the light, rolled through the throng at a deliberate pace.
A distant train whistle screamed through the air, its cry demanding attention. Every soul in the city seemed to pause, the weight of its arrival settling like dust on a page.
Among the carriages, one shone brighter than the rest—a beacon of wealth and authority. Its golden surface reflected the sun with such brilliance that people shielded their eyes, forced to glance away before returning to gaze in envy.
Adorning its sides was the unmistakable sigil of the Western State of Lysendral: a bestial head surrounded by a sun of flames and pierced by a long, gleaming sword.
Inside, the air was heavy.
A young boy sat on a plush red seat, his posture stiff, his chin resting on clasped hands, which in turn lay atop the hilt of a sword.
His scarlet eyes stared distantly out the window, their focus lost in the blur of movement outside. Jet-black hair, bound neatly behind his head, framed his face—though rebellious strands had slipped free, falling just below his cheeks.
Though unintentional, those defiant wisps softened his sharp features, lending him an effortless grace.
A voice broke the silence, soft yet insistent.
"Young Master Auren."
Across from him, a blonde woman in a maid's uniform sat with a gaze both caring and unyielding. Blue eyes locked onto his face, brimming with a stubbornness that refused to be ignored.
"You need not worry about your brother. I am sure he will make his time out to leave the outpost and show up on such an important day."
Auren sighed and replied curtly, his tone flat but firm.
"I'm not worried about anything, Relisé."
Relisé frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. She leaned forward slightly, undeterred.
"You say that, but you look as though the weight of the entire province is on your shoulders. Maybe you could start by relaxing against your seat?"
He ignored her, his gaze drifting back to the bustling streets outside the carriage window.
Her persistence, however, was unyielding.
"Young Master Auren," she pressed, "you're the pride of the western state. No one your age can rival you—not in skill, nor intelligence. Even Master Ezryn said he wasn't as good as you were when he was at your age. The Archon of Light rewards effort, and you've worked harder than anyone. There's no reason to fear receiving a Divine Blessing."
Auren's lips twitched, his voice cutting through her optimism like a blade.
"You're rambling, Relisé."
She pouted briefly before turning away, muttering:
"Your manners are the only thing that needs work…"
Finally, Auren leaned back, letting his sword rest against the seat beside him. His crimson eyes traced the ornate red ceiling above, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic creak of the carriage wheels.
"Divine…" he murmured, disbelief threading through his voice. "One appeared last year. Before that, three whole generations passed without one. A tier of blessing that can turn a commoner into someone as revered as the lords? It's a fantasy. Keep dreaming, Relisé."
Her frown deepened.
"Young Master—"
Auren interrupted, his gaze sharp and intense.
"Let's deal with reality. I'm not even expecting a Mythic tier. Pessimism is safer. It hurts less than shattered hope."
Relisé straightened, her tone firm yet kind.
"And in case you've forgotten—again—we happen to be in a city that worships the Archon of Light and Hope. Hope is the foundation of faith here. There's no shame in it."
Auren's crimson eyes flicked toward her, something unspoken lingering in his gaze. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head.
"Never mind. Hope is useless, that's all I'm saying."
Relisé stared at him, lips pressed together. She seemed to want to speak but hesitated.
By the time she finally opened her mouth, the carriage lurched to a stop. Outside, the sound of the drums swelled, the hum of the crowd rising to a fever pitch.
Auren straightened, hands instinctively finding the hilt of his sword. His expression hardened, a calm mask falling over his face.
He said with a dull and detached voice.
"Finally. The moment my fate will be decided."
The weight of his words hung in the air as Relisé looked at him, her worry unspoken but undeniable.
The carriage door swung open, and light poured in, gilding the boy's black hair and scarlet eyes as he stepped out.
A powerful voice cut through the noise.
"Arrival of Auren Veyne, second son of Baryster Veyne, Lord of the Western State of Lysendral, Sword Saint of the Archon of Light."
The crowd's uproar surged. Wails and cheers mingled with the flutter of flowers thrown in his direction. Auren ignored them, threading carefully along the red carpet that led to the temple's grand hall.
At the entrance, Relisé stopped, turning to him with a worried expression.
"You look as if I'm going to die," he remarked dryly. "Weren't you talking about hope just minutes ago?"
Relisé bent slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before straightening. She patted his head with a gentle hand.
"I wish you luck, Young Master." Then she turned away, heading toward the left.
From this point onward, only the teenagers were allowed forward.
Auren's eyes hardened. The sentries flanking the colossal doors moved, their heavy frames groaning as they pulled them open.
As he stepped inside, a different world flooded into his view.